Disclaimers: If they belonged to me, I hope I'd get the toys, too. 'cause.
You know.

Spoilers: Not a single one.

Summary: Wesley gets what he needs.

Ratings Note: R.

Author's Note: See conversation below. For the riotlist genderfuck
challenge.

Acknowledgments: To Sheila, and my wayward brain. Come home, come
home...

*

mimesere: I had the bad urge today, while cursing at stupid drivers,
to write Gunn fic in the second person.
Daddy793: You naughty little minx. <g>
Daddy793: Second person is daring, though. OK, suddenly I'm
Victorian!Te...
mimesere: *giggle*
Daddy793: And my, that Cordelia has a lovely turn of ankle!
mimesere: <g>
Daddy793: Now I want to see Xander in a corset. Though, to be
honest, I've *always* wanted to see him in a corset.
mimesere: heee
mimesere: I was talking about Wesley smut a while ago, and I said
"It's like Victorian porn.  Only with boys and no corsets."  to which
someone replied, "Oh damn.  I wanted to see Wesley in a corset."
Daddy793: Heeeee!
Daddy793: Oh, but... he'd be so embarrassed...
mimesere: he's so *thin*
Daddy793: Pink cheeked, eyes down... hands fluttering like trapped
birds. Wanting to undo the stays.

Not wanting to send *that* message, though the one he's sending now
really isn't any better and where on earth had the corset *come* from,
anyway?

Where does one even purchase such things in this day and age?

The weave of it is very fine, black and nearly silken. Only the stays
have kept him from being fully erect. They're quite uncomfortable, in
an almost entirely non-sexual way.

There are no silly frills at the end of the garment, just the sudden
shocking expanse of his own overpale thighs. Standing is better, because
that way he can only see the floor... But the catches of the corset, the
whatever-you-called-them to hook stocking to, scritch and scratch
against him.

His abdomen, his buttocks.

He is nude save for the garment, but no part of him feels more
vulnerable than what's hidden underneath fabric. He wants to offer his
genitals as a sop, a bribe. Here, and do with them what you will, just
don't... don't.

The mind will latch on to the strangest things for safety and protection.
And if the only thing Wesley has left is the Victorian answer to all that
pesky feminism.... then please don't take it away.

He smiles despite himself. Poor little Wesley, in the soup again.

It is funny. It's always funny -- he knows the way he looks at his best
moments, and this... is perfectly ridiculous. A man almost more gangle
than grown, tucked into women's underwear.

Tied in, really, his breath is a trifle short.

The man on the other side of the room does what he's supposed to,
though, and watches.

Takes it all in. Every detail, even the most minute. Wesley knows this,
though he also knows he'll never actually *ask* for them. He asked for
*this*, though, and he trusts the other man to provide.

And possibly understand.

He breathes as deep as he can and moves about his flat, tidying as he
goes.

Wesley makes no special moves, neither teases nor shies. His cock
brushes the bookshelves as he puts the compendia on the top shelf.

The fabric chafes at his nipples when he walks.

He doesn't look at the man, save when it's unavoidable.

Wiping the dust-rag on the coffee table before where the man sits,
all over, including the legs. Some things demanded completion, though
Wesley sees himself as becoming terribly lax over the years. He has
his back to the man as he dusts, crouching.

The hairs on his nape are struggling to rise, his cock is very hard, but
he is never touched. This is also the way it goes.

Though once the man had. He'd made Wesley say his name *out loud* and
it had come out a moan and he'd fallen to his knees and masturbated right
there, in the living room, under his watchful eye.

The man hasn't done that since. It is a kindness.

When Wesley is done, pillows fluffed and arranged, books on their
shelves, dishes washed... when he is done, he goes to stand before the
man again, back-to, and lowers his head.

Without a word or a single brush of flesh to flesh, the man removes the
corset and packs it away in his bag. Before Wesley sees it again, it will
have been dry-cleaned to anonymous perfection. Just a corset. Not his,
not really.

He hasn't decided if that's a kindness or not.

And Wesley wraps himself in his own arms and waits for his door to
open and close.

It doesn't take long, but he stays there for several long minutes just
the same.

This, too, is the way it goes.

End.

For what it's worth, I'm reasonably sure 'the man' is Angel. Because,
well, I think he has all sorts of women's clothes stashed away.